Read Online The Penwyth Bride (The Witch's Daughter Book 1) by Ani Bolton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ani Bolton
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Nanny, bearing a steaming kettle and some soft cloths.
“Oh, miss, ’ee’s a sight,” she said.
“Where is Jenny?” I asked as Nanny poured hot water into a washbasin until it was half full. Surreptitiously I added cool water from the jug on the nightstand.
The maid went to work untying the stays to my stomacher so that I could not read her expression. “She’s back down at the cottage, tending her sick sister,” came the careful reply.
“Oh.”
“I bain’t no lady’s maid though,” Nanny muttered.
“That’s all right. I’ve never had a lady’s maid.”
I smiled at her to show that I did not hold her at fault. Even after this soothing remark, Nanny remained petrified at doing the wrong thing, constantly asking if this or that suited me until I wanted to scream. It took ages to strip my wet frock away with clucks over the rusty mud splotching the skirt, and Nanny could not hold back a gasp of horror when she pulled off my stocking to reveal my clubfoot.
Finally I was cleaned and put into a dry chemise and petticoat, with my weak foot soaking in a basin. Nanny attempted to run a comb through my matted hair, bringing tears to my eyes.
“Never see such a tangle, miss, o‘course your hair be curlier than most.”
“The sea-damp air has been most uncongenial, I am afraid.”
“Eh?”
“Never mind, Nanny. May I have more hot water for my foot?”
The steaming warmth seeped into the taut sinews of my ankle, and I sighed. Nanny fussed around my dressing table, but I could see that all the poor girl was doing was reordering my hairbrushes and oddments in a nervous cover for doing some real service. Gently I hinted that she should take out fresh stockings from the drawer.
“Nanny,” I said, massaging my foot, “who is the old gardener that works by the dairy barn?”
“Old gardener, miss? Don’t know what you mean. All the boys here be youngish, ‘cept for the head gardener, and he must be about thirty year on. Is that who ye means?”
I frowned, making a business of tucking the tie of my waist pocketpurse out of the way of the basin. “There must be an old gardener on the property. He was a little deaf, and hunched with age. I met him myself, out by the dairy barn . . . near the walled garden.”
Nanny had been regarding me anxiously. Then her face cleared.
“Ah, ye means old Tom Pyder! I had forgotten him. He’s not really a gardener for Hermitage, miss, though he do come here from time-to-time. Been doing that for as long as folk can remember, and Sir Grover don’t like to humble a man of his years, so he let him continue on, like in the old days. Tom Pyder belongs to Lyhalis folk.”
“Lyhalis? Mr. Roger Penwyth’s property?”
“I mean the village of Lyhalis, not Mr. Roger’s great house. The village runs close to the sea, under the cliffs. Never mind Tom Pyder, mistress, if he be talking his strange talk. All the folk from Lyhalis are mazed.”
“Tom talks nonsense, does he?”
“Aye, but he always were a bit daft. Me mam says that he were born with the caul about him.”
I wound the end of the pocketpurse lace tight about my finger. To be born with a caul--the membrane from the womb that somehow remained unbroken as the babe passed through the mother’s birth canal--was a sign of second-sight. In the North, no one admits to an infant being born with the caul, at least, those mothers and midwives who wanted their infants to live. In Cornwall, it seemed, the caul presaged nothing more sinister than a sign of madness.
Nanny continued. “Old Tom’s twin brother Jem still works up at Lyhalis House, and between the two they keep the tradition of bringing the glean from Lyhalis’ hothouse to the Hermitage. Mistress, though, never sets out the blooms in her part of house. She has them brought to the kitchen. Oh, big they be, and rare, miss, and sometimes the scents . . . fair go to your head, they smell so sweet.”
“They sound wonderful.”
“They are. Where did ye
“Oh, miss, ’ee’s a sight,” she said.
“Where is Jenny?” I asked as Nanny poured hot water into a washbasin until it was half full. Surreptitiously I added cool water from the jug on the nightstand.
The maid went to work untying the stays to my stomacher so that I could not read her expression. “She’s back down at the cottage, tending her sick sister,” came the careful reply.
“Oh.”
“I bain’t no lady’s maid though,” Nanny muttered.
“That’s all right. I’ve never had a lady’s maid.”
I smiled at her to show that I did not hold her at fault. Even after this soothing remark, Nanny remained petrified at doing the wrong thing, constantly asking if this or that suited me until I wanted to scream. It took ages to strip my wet frock away with clucks over the rusty mud splotching the skirt, and Nanny could not hold back a gasp of horror when she pulled off my stocking to reveal my clubfoot.
Finally I was cleaned and put into a dry chemise and petticoat, with my weak foot soaking in a basin. Nanny attempted to run a comb through my matted hair, bringing tears to my eyes.
“Never see such a tangle, miss, o‘course your hair be curlier than most.”
“The sea-damp air has been most uncongenial, I am afraid.”
“Eh?”
“Never mind, Nanny. May I have more hot water for my foot?”
The steaming warmth seeped into the taut sinews of my ankle, and I sighed. Nanny fussed around my dressing table, but I could see that all the poor girl was doing was reordering my hairbrushes and oddments in a nervous cover for doing some real service. Gently I hinted that she should take out fresh stockings from the drawer.
“Nanny,” I said, massaging my foot, “who is the old gardener that works by the dairy barn?”
“Old gardener, miss? Don’t know what you mean. All the boys here be youngish, ‘cept for the head gardener, and he must be about thirty year on. Is that who ye means?”
I frowned, making a business of tucking the tie of my waist pocketpurse out of the way of the basin. “There must be an old gardener on the property. He was a little deaf, and hunched with age. I met him myself, out by the dairy barn . . . near the walled garden.”
Nanny had been regarding me anxiously. Then her face cleared.
“Ah, ye means old Tom Pyder! I had forgotten him. He’s not really a gardener for Hermitage, miss, though he do come here from time-to-time. Been doing that for as long as folk can remember, and Sir Grover don’t like to humble a man of his years, so he let him continue on, like in the old days. Tom Pyder belongs to Lyhalis folk.”
“Lyhalis? Mr. Roger Penwyth’s property?”
“I mean the village of Lyhalis, not Mr. Roger’s great house. The village runs close to the sea, under the cliffs. Never mind Tom Pyder, mistress, if he be talking his strange talk. All the folk from Lyhalis are mazed.”
“Tom talks nonsense, does he?”
“Aye, but he always were a bit daft. Me mam says that he were born with the caul about him.”
I wound the end of the pocketpurse lace tight about my finger. To be born with a caul--the membrane from the womb that somehow remained unbroken as the babe passed through the mother’s birth canal--was a sign of second-sight. In the North, no one admits to an infant being born with the caul, at least, those mothers and midwives who wanted their infants to live. In Cornwall, it seemed, the caul presaged nothing more sinister than a sign of madness.
Nanny continued. “Old Tom’s twin brother Jem still works up at Lyhalis House, and between the two they keep the tradition of bringing the glean from Lyhalis’ hothouse to the Hermitage. Mistress, though, never sets out the blooms in her part of house. She has them brought to the kitchen. Oh, big they be, and rare, miss, and sometimes the scents . . . fair go to your head, they smell so sweet.”
“They sound wonderful.”
“They are. Where did ye
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